


1001 Nights (In two weeks of elections)

by peterqpan



Series: Harringrove Works [9]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Elections, Late-night scrolling, M/M, Stress and Comfort, no sexytimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27554170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterqpan/pseuds/peterqpan
Summary: Just a little sweetness during the American elections.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Harringrove Works [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003
Comments: 30
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [failing_light](https://archiveofourown.org/users/failing_light/gifts).



> Yeah, so, obviously this isn't a chapter of A Strategic Proposal, but it's what I have?
> 
> And a thank you fic to failing_light for such nice comments! (Hope that's okay!) XD

Billy'd yelled "HOORAY, I get to vote for the candidate I hate LESS" all the way to the polls, but when he shoved Steve awake at 5am on November 4th, he was wailing "He WON! Trump won, look, he won, the asshole _won_ somehow, I thought you said he'd fucking _lose,_ Steve— _Harrington—_ you god damn _liar—"_

"Fmgh," Steve mumbled, pushing the pillow out of his mouth, rubbing the drool off his chin with his wrist, and trying to make sense of the clock, which said something like SSSS:OOO22 until he blinked and squinted. "Five am," he sighed, burying his head in his arms. "Think I'm having a nightmare."

"Steve, you fucker," Billy hissed, elbowing him, and blinding him with his phone, "—you said he'd _lose,_ here he is declaring he's winning—"

"S'not winning," Steve sighed, squinting again as Billy waved the phone in his face. It shook in his hand.  
  
"He is, he's _fucking_ declared victory," Billy whispered, and Steve registered his husband's _panic,_ and rolled to flap an arm around him, and grapple him close. Billy was warm from the blankets, and he smelled like soap, and he was crying. "He's won, they've—they've fucking _won,_ we—we're gonna have to move to Amsterdam, we—we're gonna have to—"

Steve snorted at the plan, but squeezed Billy tighter, trying not to laugh. "He's lying, babe," he mumbled. "He's a lying sack of shit. He's just lying."

"He says he won," Billy said softly, into Steve's shoulder, and Steve wrested the phone away to scroll through.   
  
"Nah, nope," he said, kissing his husband's curls. "M'better at math than he is, honeybunches, he's just a lying sack of shit. Biden's leading, okay?"

"He declared victory," Billy sighed, nuzzling closer. "Jesus."

"Yeah," Steve told him, pulling him into a soft kiss. "What a fucking moron, right? What an asswipe.”

"Okay," Billy whispered, relaxing into it, and snorting a laugh. "Okay."  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The election's over, and yet it's not over, but at least Steve's husband has Ho-Hos

Steve awoke—again—to Billy’s glowing blanket, tented over his head as he scrolled the news. “Mmmfgng,” he mumbled, meaning a mixture of “Don’t you have work tomorrow,” and “What’s happened now,” and “You’re beautiful,” and Billy hummed distractedly, and leaned to kiss him on the side of the head.

“The Orange Peril still hasn’t conceded,” Billy muttered. 

Steve spit out a fold of blanket, rolling to nuzzle his head into Billy’s arm. “He’ll give up ‘ventually. Babe.” Billy smelled like clean laundry and chocolate, and Steve sniffed again, raising his head and squinting around blearily. “Chocolate..?”

“I don’t even _want_ him to give up anymore,” Billy grabbed a half-eaten pack of Ho-Hos, and slapped the remaining one into Steve’s hand. “I want Biden’s team to do what they said, and remove the trespasser from the white house. I want ‘em dragging him down the stairs while he clings to a banister shouting ‘No! No! Mine!’” 

Steve snorted, slinging a leg over his husband’s butt, and unwrapping the Ho-Ho, his fingers sinking into the chocolate icing. “Mmn,” he said, taking a bite, and resting his chin on Billy’s shoulder, holding the cupcake out. “Mmfgn. Cheers.”

Billy leaned to take a bite, and then swallowed and kissed him, soft and chocolatey. “I want Secret Service guys to yank on his ankles ‘til his pants fall down, and every news station to show his legs kicking against the floor,” he mumbled vindictively. 

“Still hoping he dies of COVID,” Steve sighed. “Before he gets any executive orders out—”

“Or a golfing accident,” Billy suggested, reloading CNN again on his phone. “Maybe his stomach fills up with golf balls because his fucking mouth is always hanging open at somebody. Like a dog.”

“Mrnf.” Steve snorted, laughing through the last bite of cupcake, and trying not to spray chocolate everywhere. He swallowed, rubbing his face on Billy’s shoulder.

“Don’t rub food all over me,” Billy hissed, growling into Steve’s hair, and Steve laughed, squirming closer. 

“...first trans senator,” he whispered. “We got—”

“I know,” Billy said, his eyes narrowing. “Might lose the senate, though, d’you know how hard it’s gonna be to get this gerrymandering _bullshit—”_

“Two gay black guys in the House of Representatives,” Steve reminded him, and they both grinned, remembering Billy’s dance on the coffee table at their _Joe Biden Got Elected_ party for two. He tugged at Billy’s phone. 

Billy let go with a groan, letting his head fall against Steve’s shoulder. “I wanna punch him in the mouth until his tooth shrapnel kills Mitch McConnell,” he said into Steve’s neck, in kind of a petulant mumble, and Steve laughed silently, clicking his husband’s phone off, and sliding it under his own pillow. 

He grabbed Billy’s hand, and kissed the gold band on it, prompting another grumble. “Hey,” he whispered.

“Mfng,” Billy grunted, rolling entirely on top of Steve, and hugging him until it hurt. “Shut up. Stuff another Ho-Ho in there if I gotta…”

“...you’ve got more?” Steve whispered back, distracted.

“...no,” said Billy, after some thought. “Maybe.” His voice vibrated against Steve’s shoulder.

“Oof,” Steve said, letting himself start to drift back to sleep under his husband’s warm weight. “Hey. Hon. You want to join one of those phone banks? Call voters in Georgia?”

“No,” Billy said, then sighed. “...yeah. Yes—”

“Don’ threaten ‘nybody,” Steve mumbled.

“Depends on who picks up,” Billy growled, and Steve snorted, giggling. “Gotta be honest,” Billy said. “‘You votin’ Republican? You stay home, Ma’am.’”

“We should start our own conspiracy theories,” Steve said. “They’ve got theirs. Tell ‘em we’ll make ‘em gay if they come out and vote Republican.”

“Win-win,” Billy said. “...yeah. Tomorrow. Nancy’ll help.”

“Think she’s calling already,” Steve told him, and Billy paused to think. 

“Get the kids. Get everybody over. Sweathouse labor.”

“We could bribe ‘em with pizza,” Steve suggested, and Billy’s sleep-gravelly voice went to even a deeper Batman register.

_“They get pizza when the senate flips blue.”_


	3. Lockdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy gets a scare, and takes a bit to register that things are okay. Steve helps.

Billy heard Steve come in, and wiped his nose, taking a shuddery breath in the warm, close air under the comforter. He heard Zoomer meow, and then Solo, and then Steve’s voice right by his head, probably crouched next to the couch. 

There was a breeze by his ankle, and then Steve’s warm hand sliding around it, stroking where Billy’s bones were close to the skin. The weight of his head pressed against Billy’s shoulder.

“What are you guys doing,” he heard Steve whisper to the cats, his voice warm and worried. “You’re supposed to chase all the bad feelings away when I’m not here. What kinds of predators are you?” Billy heard the floor creak as Steve scooted closer to tug gently at the comforter, and he shook his head. 

Steve held still for a long second, then whispered, “Okay.” He smacked a kiss on top of Billy’s head, through the blankets. “We’ll leave you quiet for a minute?” he asked, then pressed another kiss against the side of Billy’s head.

“Yeah, go away,” Billy managed, laughing wetly. “I’m drowning in snot.”

“That’s okay,” Steve said, petting Billy’s shoulder like he did when he didn’t know _ what  _ to do, and Billy laughed harder. 

“Go away!” he said again, crying harder, his fingers gripping the pillow as his lungs shuddered with sobs, and he felt _ disgusting  _ with the wet fabric rubbing his face, but his eyes still burned with tears, and his nose wouldn’t stop running. 

Steve lingered to rub his back through the blanket, then kissed him again, and Billy heard his footsteps off towards the kitchen. 

Billy sighed, took a few shaky breaths—five, like his therapist said to—and swung his legs off the couch. He stalked off to the bathroom to blow his nose on like half a roll of toilet paper, feeling like a leaky fire hose. His chin itched with tears dripping down it, his mustache was so disgusting he scrubbed it and tossed the washcloth in the laundry, and the skin around his eyes felt like it’d been _ sanded.  _

He could hear Steve talking to the cats in the kitchen, banging around, and Billy took a deep breath, surveying his red, swollen nose and eyes in the mirror, and laughed at himself. He walked back into the front room, tossed the whole pillow he’d been crying into on the floor by the door to _ burn,  _ and pulled the blanket over his head again with a sigh. 

The floor into the kitchen creaked, and Billy kicked his feet up under the blanket so Steve would laugh.

He didn’t. 

“...made some pot brownies,” he said softly, from next to Billy’s head again, and Billy’s cheeks heated, his eyes filling again at the thought of Steve worriedly scrambling for brownie mix. 

“M’okay,” Billy told him, muffled by the blanket. “Got my test back. Negative.”

“...jesus, what happened,” Steve said, suddenly squeezing his shoulders through the blanket, and breathing shakily against the back of Billy’s head. Billy’s sinuses started to burn with another flood, and he cleared his throat as he felt Zoomer—the heavier of the two—land on his head, and Solo, polite, timid, and ill-named, pat his butt from the back of the couch.

Billy started snickering. “The fuck did you do,” he asked, “—put tuna on me?”

“It was an emergency,” Steve said, muffled, squeezing him tighter.

“Gonna get rats in here, you keep putting tuna on my head to get the cats on me,” Billy grumbled, under the weight of two purring cats, but he was grinning into his arms under the blanket, and he knew Steve could hear it in his voice.

“They’re just dry treats,” Steve said virtuously, burrowing his face under the edge of the blanket enough to kiss Billy’s fingers.

“...one of the delivery guys tested positive,” Billy said. “I thought, what if I lost this,” he choked out, sliding his arms out from under the blanket, and squeezing Steve as hard as he could. “M’sorry, sorry, _ shit,  _ I freaked you out,” he said, gulping between his words, and Steve squeezed him _ and  _ the piles of comforter, kissing his head. “But just—what if—what if I didn’t—didn’t get any more mornings with you, what if I’d al-already brought it home and you _died—_ I don't—I can't—I can't watch you—”

“I’m okay,” Steve interrupted, his own face wet against Billy’s cheek. “We’re okay, babe.”

“Irene took the delivery, but she’s negative too.”

“She’s the one who keeps giving you treats,” Steve growled, huffing against the back of Billy’s head, and Billy laughed, wet but real, wiping his eyes. “Seducing my man.”

“She’s married, y’know. And she’s into tits, babe. I have got _ nothing  _ she’s interested in.” 

“You have better tits than anyone,” Steve said loyally, and Billy pushed back the edge of the blanket to grin at him, and got a kiss on the end of his swollen nose. 

“You’re weird, Harrington,” Billy breathed.

“You said her brownies were better than mine,” Steve hissed, sliding a hand under the blanket and under the back of Billy’s shirt. It was warm, and grounding, and Billy giggled harder, rolling a little to lean against his husband’s chest.

“She’s like a hundred years old, Harrington,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m not getting seduced away by a woman who lived through the Spanish Flu.”

“I make damn good brownies,” Steve said petulantly, and Billy curled around him, dumping Solo off with a squeak, and burying his face in the soft cotton of Steve’s shirt. 

“And we’re still okay,” Billy whispered, and Steve squeezed him tighter.

“Yeah. We’re still okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Reblog this fic!](https://platypanthewriter.tumblr.com/post/638372961168097280/election-day)  
>  **Thank you so much for wandering in! Lemme know if you liked my story--I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Thanks so, so much! XD**  
>  (I try to reply to each one, but if you don't want a response to your comment then please say "No reply please" or "Whisper" so I'll know not to reply.)
> 
> Like my writing? =D Follow my writing progress and WIPs on Tumblr at [Platypan the writer!](https://platypanthewriter.tumblr.com/) Subscribe to the Harringrove without everything else at [Unrelated Harringrove Works Series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003)


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